the sheer joy of having this wonderful stuff passing through my hands. You’ll see.’
‘I thought they were pretty strict about antiquities not leaving the country?’ Jake asked idly as he stripped off jeans sticky from the plane and the drive.
‘They are. But there are always ways,’ she said, her tone repressing further questions.
He’d realised by now what she meant by that. For someone whose principal business lay in the buying and selling of bits of paper–holograph letters, manuscripts ancient and modern, illuminated sheet music–it was easy to send irregularly acquired material back to the UK. As long as the envelope looked like an innocuous piece of business post–a brochure for a villa, say, or a prospectus for a new commercial development–nobody in the Greek or British post office was going to look twice at it. ‘In a dozen years of doing this, I’ve only lost one item in the mail,’ Caroline had told him matter-of-factly the first time they’d visited the main post office in Chania. ‘And it wasn’t especially valuable. People only take an interest if you start dressing it up as recorded delivery and insuring it. Otherwise, it gets taken for granted.’
Their days had quickly assumed a pattern. They’d sleep late then Jake would drive up to Horafakia for fresh bread, fruit and yoghurt. Breakfast on the terrace, then down to the beach for a swim. Sometimes they’d go into Chania so Caroline could meet one of her Greek contacts who would occasionally produce some piece of work that would take his breath away; otherwise, Caroline would write emails and make phone calls while Jake read auction catalogues or lounged in the sun with a book. From time to time, they would immerse themselves in a manuscript, discussing the hand of the scribe, the likely origins and, finally, its potential value. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he was learning from Caroline. Lunch at the taverna was followed by sex and sleep then drinks and backgammon. In the evenings, they’d drive out for dinner. The day would end with another bout of sexual activity. Jake was gradually beginning to understand why Caroline preferred younger lovers; men of her own age, he’d been led to believe, generally didn’t have the stamina to meet her demands. Not that he minded. He enjoyed sex and she was an enthusiastic and imaginative partner.
What he did mind was the worm of boredom that was working its way to the surface of his mind more and more frequently. Like most men in their late twenties, he’d fantasised about a life like this. Sun, sea, sex and a sugar momma to pay for it all. Caroline was a sardonically amusing companion, never clingy, seldom anything other than equable in temper and open-handed with her knowledge. But still dissatisfaction niggled at Jake.
It wasn’t that he felt guilty. He’d convinced himself he was right not to tell Jane the whole truth about Caroline. It would only hurt her. Instead, he’d explained that there were good practical reasons why he and Jane should loosen the bonds of their relationship–he’d have to travel for work, he’d be away in Greece for a couple of months, it wouldn’t be fair on Jane to hang around waiting for him. He’d said that Caroline was in her early forties, but had omitted to mention her lean, lithe frame, her shapely legs, her swatch of dark blonde hair or her dancing green eyes. Or that sex with Caroline had been a breathtaking adventure, right from the first cocaine-fuelled fuck at Tom D’Arblay’s party. The party Jane had had to miss because she was giving a paper at some stupid bloody symposium in Cardiff.
He’d thought it was a one-shag stand. Nobody had been more surprised than he when Caroline had texted him the next day to suggest they meet for a drink. Over cocktails in a chic Soho bar, Caroline had been bright and brilliant, showing him an autograph letter from John Keats that she’d bought only that afternoon. Then she’d put a proposition to him. She was tired of being a one-woman band. She wanted an associate in her business buying and selling rare documents. He was, she said, the one she wanted. He knew enough of the technical aspect of what they would be buying and selling to avoid the pitfalls of obvious forgeries and faked provenances. He was clearly smart and ambitious. ‘And you’re a pretty good fuck too,’ she’d added, smiling wickedly over the rim of her glass.
She’d given him a week to think it over. He’d made his decision by the next morning. His boss had been furious, Jane had been appalled at his abandoning the supposed purity of museum life for the cut-throat world of collectors and high rollers, and his father had warned him about what happens when beautiful women get bored. None of it had mattered. For the first time in a long time, Jake was having fun. Crete had merely seemed the icing on the cake.
Until reality had replaced the fantasy and he found himself bored for the first time since the age of thirteen.
Jake drew up outside the cottage. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, wondering whether Caroline would read the meaning in the newspapers. He grabbed the shopping and added the contents of his bags to the food already arranged on the patio table. Caroline emerged with a jug of freshly squeezed juice just as he slumped into a chair, clutching the papers like a shield in front of his chest.
A smile quirked one corner of her mouth. ‘Well done, Jake,’ she said, filling the tumblers.
‘What?’
‘You held out longer than anybody else I’ve ever brought here. Three weeks and two days. That’s a record.’ She leaned over and kissed him, rumpling his hair with one hand and running the other over the front of his shorts.
‘You don’t mind?’ Jake said, wrong-footed.
‘Why would I mind? I’m not an ostrich. I’m not here to escape.’ She slid elegantly into her chair and tipped her sunglasses from her hair to cover her eyes. ‘I’m here because I love it and it’s possible for me to be here without fucking up my life or my business. The only reason I don’t have you buy a paper every morning from Koutras is that I read the bloody things online, sweetie.’
They settled into their papers, Jake smarting at Caroline’s condescension. He was beginning to wonder how seriously she took his expertise; too often, he was left feeling like a gigolo, appreciated only for his bedroom skills and not for the quality of his mind. He was only half taking in what he was reading, but when his eyes stumbled over a familiar name he stopped short and returned to the beginning of the story. ‘Fuck me,’ he breathed softly.
Caroline glanced up. ‘I rather thought I had,’ she teased. ‘What is it, darling?’
Jake shook his head. ‘Nothing, really.’ He passed the paper across the table, pointing to the story. ‘It’s just that I know the place where it happened.’
Caroline skimmed the story. ‘Fellhead,’ she said, her voice clipped and her face unreadable. ‘Would that be where the lovely Jane hails from?’
Neither of them had spoken much of their past by tacit agreement, but Jake had mentioned spending time in the Lakes with Jane when Caroline had been thinking of buying a bundle of Robert Southey’s letters. ‘That’s right,’ he said. Then he grinned. ‘I hope she’s seen that story.’
‘Why? Because Fellhead doesn’t hit the headlines often?’
‘No…’ He leaned across and pointed to the penultimate paragraph. ‘Because she’ll be convinced this is evidence of one of her hare-brained theories.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Caroline said in a tone that indicated this was seldom her chosen state.
‘The black tattoos. They’re the sort that sailors used to get in the South Seas back in the old days when sailing ships put in at the islands to take on stores and trade with the natives,’ Jake explained. ‘For example, most of the sailors on the Bounty had tattoos done while they were in Tahiti collecting the breadfruit they were supposed to be bringing home.’
‘What
